


All For One

by JuliaMG



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, All for one and one for all, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Bonding, Brotherhood, Brotherly Love, Brothers, Depression, Discrimination, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Friendship, Gen, Hurt Aramis, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Savoy, Suicidal Thoughts, Supporting Porthos, Survivor Guilt, Trust Issues, they save each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-03-01 06:48:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13289343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuliaMG/pseuds/JuliaMG
Summary: After the massacre at Savoy Aramis is left to pick himself up, piece by piece, without any intention of doing so. This is when he first meets Porthos, who is perfectly content with helping him do it, and then Athos, who despite his own issues manages to hold them togheter as they yet again are on the brink of falling apart.This is my version of how The Three Musketeers came to be.





	1. A Lucky Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> "All for one and one for all, united we stand divided we fall.” - Alexandre Dumas
> 
> Please leave a comment to let me know what you think and if you want me to continue! <3

The sun is shining and René sits in the grass underneath the roof of one of the sables with his eyes closed, trying to chase away the cold that has settled in his bones by bathing in the sunshine. It doesn't really work, but it still makes him feel a little bit better, and on this particular day the memories are further away than they normally are, so he takes it as a good day of few.

  
The thick smell from the horses and the hay comforts him. It reminds him of his childhood, and of safety. His heart doesn’t race as fast when he spends some time with his horse, and simply being near them gives him a wonderful feeling of solitude. Even his thoughts seems to have calmed, and even though René feels numb, he can’t help but think that it’s better than the pain, sorrow and guilt.

He couldn’t save them. Any of them. He feels like he betrayed them, like he failed them. His chest tightens at the thought, and René closes his eyes shut tightly, trying to breathe past the anguish that churns inside of him. It feels as if the world is closing in on him, and blackness presses against him even as his eyes are closed. The sensation of imaginary snow landing on his skin makes him shiver, and they overtake his body until it looks like he is trembling. He almost dares not to open his eyes, in fear of finding the ground covered in snow covered in blood and bodies.

He can feel his hands shaking slightly as he clenches them shut before opening them up repeatedly, trying to work out a way to distract himself from the panic attack that builds up inside of him. He tries to focus on the smell of the grass, and of the horses. Listens to the sound of the wind in the trees. Clenches his jaw in a desperate attempt to control his breathing. 

It takes a minute or two, but as the anxiety slowly lessens, and the lump in his throat loosens, a voice suddenly invades his deep thoughts.

"Are you Aramis?" René hesitantly cracks one eye open to frown into the glaring sunlight. There are no bodies on the ground, and the ground is green, not white, but there is a man standing before him, arms crossed over his chest. He is surrounded by shadows. René doesn't recognize him; he must be one of the new recruits. It takes him a moment to find his voice. Most of the people at the garrison tended to avoid him and leave him alone with his thoughts, so it was actually quite some time ago since had to use his vocals. As he opens his mouth to answer, the sound that first comes out is a bit squeaky. René is everything but proud of himself, embarrassment flushing his face slightly, but then he clears his throat and tries his best to ignore the way the other man frowns at him, eyes clouded by the big hat he wears.

"My name is _René_." René corrects him, harshly, leaving no room for discussion. In truth, he hates Aramis. That man had died alongside his brothers. Only a broken man had remained, and his name was René, and he was a coward and a failure. He didn't deserve to even be mentioned in the same sentence as the _famous_ Aramis.

The dark skinned man snorts, glancing away for a second as if he can’t even stand looking René in the eye, and the smaller man instantly feels mocked. He can feel himself get on edge, and sits up straighter, opening both eyes, squaring his shoulders; readying himself to take on a fight if he has to. Before he is able to get the chance to tell the black haired bastard to “fuck off” the other man returns his attention to him and beats him to it, relieving his true intentions behind their encounter:

"You think you could teach me how to shoot?"

René doesn’t even think about it before answering, voice snappy and hard, eyes glaring at the other man. He can’t help but to feel pissed about the fact that he can’t look him dead in the eye, because he would've if that is what it takes to get this man to understand that his presence is not wanted.

" _Forget it_."

A moment of silence follows, and René leans back again. He is still extremely on edge, whole body tense and rigid, yet he closes his eyes. He knows that he safe here, he just needs to convince himself so. Nothing bad can happen to him under Treville’s command, and maybe if he just ignores the other man he will go away. Instead of focusing on the pressing discomfort in being watched, René focuses on the sun. He breathes it in, trying to use it as a soothing sensation. He can feel the chill taking a toll on him again, and he shivers uneasily, staring up into the sun to try and burn it out of him.

He almost forgets that the other man is there and begins to think that he might have left him alone, when he speaks once again:

"You sure?"

René opens his eyes again, confusion taking over the irritation, and frowns up at the other man who, for some reason, is still standing there, looking right back at him, not missing a beat. Before even gets the chance to gather his wits, the other man continues: "I heard you were the best man with a musket here."

"You heard wrong." René says lowly and grits his teeth, trying to ignore the way his hands feels sweaty and cold. He presses his back up against the wall, trying to shrink away without making his discomfort so obvious.

"Really?" The other man huffs, and René can see it in the way that he rolls his eyes; he doesn't believe him. Not even for half a second. René can’t bring himself to look away as he tips his head down, looking him over as if he actually waits for René to change his mind. When René keeps his dry mouth shut and makes no other indication he is going to agree with the other man, his patience runs out, he sighs, actually managing to look a bit disappointed behind the facade of confidence. He lets his gaze waver and Aramis swallows hard. The sun feels too hot. "Well then, I will just try to do it on my own."

  
He turns away, and briskly takes his leave. René stays put, and the tension doesn’t bleed out of him for quite some time. He leans back against the wall again, heart racing. He feels sick to his stomach. Sweat breaks out of hin forehead, and it’s not due to the bright sunlight. He doesn’t know why, but the way the other man looked at him, like a kicked puppy, before he left, as branded a mark before his eyes. He bites the inside of lip, and realizes with a very uncomfortable feeling in his stomach that he can’t go back to simply being like he had been before. He hunches over, placing his elbows on his knees. He tells himself curiosity is the only reason he follows the dark skinned man with his eyes.

As the man comes up to the shooting range, René notices how a crowd slowly gathers behind him. They are discrete, standing a good couple of feet away, but René can see in their stances that they are snickering, subtly gesticulating towards the muscular man. The way they look at him implies that they don’t see him as an equal, and René feels sickened by the idea of why. Racial bastards. A bunch of red guards nods in his direction, a mocking smirk on their ugly faces. For the first time in a long time, René actually feels like throwing a punch straight at them. He has been discriminated before. Having a Spanish mother was something that the French often used as a reason to shut him out. He hated racism.

The black man lifts up his arm, and René instantly notices that there is something seriously wrong with his stance. He holds his arm out in a very awkward angle, shoulder not in the right position. It makes the musket look unbalanced even from where René is sitting, and he frowns, trying to understand how the hell that guy managed to join the armory.

When he fires, the weapon retaliates with a load BANG!, yet the bullet goes passes its target with at least a good couple of meters. René glances back at the men who has gathered around the range, and just like he has suspected, they are snickering, shaking their heads. René sighs heavily. The other man won’t last a day if he can’t even use a musket; not in nor out of duty.

The three following shots aren’t much better, and he misses the board every single time, and when René takes in the defeated look in his stance as he notices the way the others are laughing at him, he can’t take it anymore. The other man seems harmless enough, and René cannot do _nothing_ as the others, his so called _fellow_ _brothers_ , looks at him as he if he is a misfit. René may deserve their hatred, but this man does not. Not yet at least...

Before he can change his mind he straightens himself up and briskly walks over the field to the black man. The sun shines on him, and he dares not to look any other way than at the other man who is staring incredulously at the target board, as if he himself can’t even believe he missed so ungracefully.

"They are laughing at you." René states rather unhelpfully as he reaches him, casting a look behind his shoulder to see them still standing there, whispering behind their backs, and the other man huffs out a long breath of air.

"Believe me, I know."

"You're..." René pauses, and takes another moment to observe the way the other man is holding the musket, before he sighs heavily and takes the weapon away from him without a second thought. "You are holding it wrong. You're supposed to hold it like this, see?"

He demonstrates the grip with a carefully controlled blank look on his face, trying to ignore how the cold metal causes shivers to run down his spine and memories to press against his mind, threatening to overwhelm him. His hand shakes noticeably, so he tries to force the trembles to cease, mouth going even dryer, but the other man says nothing. He simply observes.

A beat of silence hangs between them, but René surprisingly doesn’t find himself on the brink of a panic attack, so instead of hiding away like he normally does he gives the man a pointed look. As if in que, the other man nods, and René hands the musket back to him.

He changes his position and stance, trying to mimic the way René had held the musket, and he does it almost perfectly. He takes a breath. Closes one eye. Fires. And the bullet hits the target board on yellow. René takes that as an improvement, nodding slightly to show his approval. As he glances back, the others look slightly less interested in their mockery, and René hums silently for himself, trying to appear unfazed by the way they look at him when they notice him looking back at them.

The other man certainly does see it as improval, as he lets out an animalistic sounding cheer and waves around the gun like it some sort of unloaded toy, happily gesticulating at the board. René can't help the smile that slowly creeps up into his eyes for the first time since the cold had taken a hold of him.

It takes a moment or two before the other man calms himself down enough to pass René the broadest, proudest grin the smaller man has ever seen. With a stab of pain he realizes no one has even given a real smile since Savoy, and that was weeks ago. He cracks a broken smile in return.

"I'm Porthos, by the way." The man says, joyously, and offers his hand to René, who shakily takes it after a moment of hesitation. He feels warm, surprisingly so. For a second it almost feels like before, and it gives him a moment of confidence.

"Pleasure to meet you Porthos." He gets a firm shake of a warm hand, and the heat spreads through his arm up into his whole chest, filling the void in his heart with some much needed company. "I'm René."

"Pleasure is all mine, my friend."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry that this took so long for me to update. I'm struggling a lot with personal issues, and my interest in writing comes and goes, even though I always love it. I have been working on this chapter on and off over the last couple of months, but two thirds I did today. Hopefully I'll be able to keep it up this time.
> 
> I really hope you all will enjoy reading and it honestly would mean the world if you guys would comment and let me know your thoughts!
> 
> The response on the last chapter was amazing, so thank you so much for that! When things have been rough all of your kind words and support has meant a lot. It is truly amazing, and it makes me feel a lot better so thank you! <3
> 
> Have an amazing day, enjoy, and please leave a comment before you go! ;) <33

It has been almost three weeks since René first met Porthos, and he is slowly doing better. A warm feeling is every now and then creeping into his bones whenever he is around the dark skinned man; a warmth that replaces the cold, lonely numbness in his heart and soul. The warmth even makes him feel happy at times. It’s on rare occasions, when Porthos becomes such a good distraction that for just the smallest of seconds, René forgets.

He forgets the heavy, crushing guilt that’s eating at his insides. He forgets the burden of twenty dead musketeers that constantly clouds his thoughts and thickens his lungs, making it difficult to breathe. He forgets the fear, the paranoia… the pain. It’s just for a fleeting second, but deep down René is forever grateful for those moments, even though it hurts ten times worse when he remembers again the next second.

Right now the two of them are playing cards at a table in a noisy bar of Porthos’ choice. The man himself is loud, cheering and laughing, and he draws a lot of attention to the both of them. René hates it, and he tries his best to shrink back into his chair and avoid looking anyone in the eye so they understand that he is not interested in talking.

Porthos does most of the talking, anyways.

Right now the bigger man is chatting with two strangers at a nearby table, and René shuffles his cards, trying his best to ignore the way the strangers’ eyes burn his skin every time they glance at him, quietly questioning his silence. René promptly refuses to look at them and Porthos does not lecture him about it, even though René rudely ignores his every attempt at trying to invite him into the conversation with expressions along the lines of: “Ha ha! Did you hear that René? What a story!”, “what do you think René, did she make the right decision?”, “ah, I think me and René both can agree on that!”, “right, René?”.

He never stopped trying, René could certainly give him that, and a small part of him was actually really thankful for it, even though another part of him was pretty annoyed.

Suddenly Porthos barks out laughing, probably at some joke that René doesn’t even try to pretend he’s heard and found amusing. Instead, he simply tries to focus on the game, but he can’t help shifting uncomfortably in his seat. A slight tremor has taken a hold of him, and the hair on his arms stand tall. Before Sa-...

René swallows hard as the thought invades his senses, but pushes past the icy hands around his lungs and distractedly places another card on the table so Porthos won’t notice the way his mind is drifting away from their table and the game. He can feel his heart speed up slightly, and his mouth goes dry. He grabs the glas from the table and takes a mouthful of wine just as Porthos turns around to look at him.

“It’s your turn.” René says simply, sounding a lot less interested than he actually is. Porthos smirks, but René finds it hard to return the favour.

Before _Savoy_ he was very good around people. He was everybody’s friend. As Marsac once put it: he was a friend of the world. That was all Aramis though. Aramis were a lot of things that René isn’t. They have some things in common though, and the loneliness is one of them. It was a craving for attention and company that constantly drove Aramis to busy places. He tried to cover up the gaping black hole inside of him by surrounding himself with people, which worked, for the most of times. Aramis was skilled around people. He was a good pretender. A fantastic liar. But he was also skilled at hiding, when needed.

On the contrary, drowning his sorrows with meaningless small talk does not work for René. He struggles to be around Porthos even, and the guy has proved himself nothing but trustworthy over the three weeks René has known him.

It is frustrating, René thinks, because some days René can’t help the feelings of betrayal over the smallest of things Porthos does. He takes every chance he has to blame him and paint him up as something he is not; a traitor, a liar, a bully… the list goes on. When he doesn’t get one, he looks for them, and every time he can’t help but be surprised as Porthos proves himself to be everything but those things, time and time again. René hates himself for it, especially on times like these when he actually really enjoys Porthos’ company and is unable to wrap his head around how he ever could think so lowly of him.

They continue on playing for a while, and soon René is distracted enough to let himself get caught up in the conversation Porthos once again gives him an opening to. The infectious smile that tugs at his lips when René casually offers his first, shy comment is broad and proud enough for the both of them. He almost looks like he wants to give himself a pat on the shoulder, and his voice grows louder as he puffs his chest in confidence and excitement. René chuckles at the expression, shaking his head with his gaze held low but face smiling.

When Porthos wins the game a couple of turns later, he instantly begins to brag about his skills to everyone around him, but René knows he is just playing around. The happiness that’s radiating off of him spreads to everyone who is greeted by it, and with a twitch of jealousy in his chest René wishes he could be just as cheerful as his newfound friend. Once upon a time, he actually was. The reminder of Savoy makes the smile he wears turn slightly less genuine, but he forces it to remain on his face and hides his eyes instead. He does not want Porthos to notice that something is off, not right now, when they are having fun. It’s not the time. It never is.

When Porthos calms down he takes a gulp of wine before smiling kindly at René, gesturing towards the cards on the table, silently asking if they should have another go. René simply nods, but before they get the chance to start, a man approaches the two of them.

“Hey.” The man says, voice wavering but incredibly hard despite the very obvious, lazy drunkenness to it. He nearly trips over his own feet as he reaches the table, and René notices Porthos snicker despite his discrete attempt at trying to hide it behind the back of his hand. René doesn’t even smile. His face falls, and his expression turns grim.

The other man’s name is Elliot, and René already knows what he wants. Dread quickly replace the warmth inside of him, and the cold creeps back in within seconds. René could swear on his life that he heard a crow croak the exact same moment Elliot’s steely eyes meet his. It takes all the willpower he possesses not to look away.

“You’re here. Drinking.” Elliot states, and René simply nods, trying his best to appear unfazed as Elliot drags out a chair by the table and takes a seat.

“So I am.” He answers modestly, glancing away. Porthos glances between them, but doesn’t question the statement. René simply puts as much focus as he possibly can on rearranging the cards on the table, scooping them all up and shuffling them with interest. Never in his life had he taken shuffling cards so seriously.

“Can I join you two gentlemen?” Elliot asks then, smiling, gesturing towards the cards, voice filled with a forced friendliness that makes René feel sick. He sucks in a harsh breath and closes his eyes for a fleeting moment in order to compel his breathing to not sound as labored as his heartbeat does in his own ears.

When he opens them again he puts up the best smile he can muster as he meets the steely eyes, tone probably just as fake as Elliot’s. “I’m sorry Elliot, but I was just heading back to my room. It’s been a long day.”

He does his best to ignore the way Porthos’ gaze lingers on him a second or two longer than it normally does. Elliot frowns and the muscles in his face twitches, but then he quickly smothers them all out and gives René a disgustingly sweet smile. In that moment, René knows he is not going to be able to leave so soon. There is no way he is going to be able to bring himself to move, even if he wanted to; and oh, how he wants to.

“Come on, one game.” Elliot says. “For old times sake, yeah?”

René wracks his brain for something to say in order to escape, but he runs blank and remains silent instead. For a little while, nobody utters a word.

“You two know each other well?” Porthos questions hesitantly from the side of the table, trying to ease the obvious tension between the two men as René says nothing. Even he looks slightly uncomfortable.

René turns to his friend and opens his mouth to answer, to explain, to ask for help - but Elliot beats him to it.

“We used to play cards here occasionally. With our friends.” He barks out a loud, humourless laugh, throwing his head back slightly before gesturing towards René. “It usually ended with that handsome fellow right there asking a lady out though, leaving us halfway through the night!”

“Really?”

Porthos does most of the talking after that, calling people over at times to brag about his cards or chatter about his _unbeatable_ strategies, but he doesn’t try to invite René into the conversation anymore. Apparently the silent plea for help was heard, even though the reaction was not exactly what René wanted.

Elliot on the other hand sometimes throws a slurring comment in René’s direction. The man in question tries his best to respond to them without showing too much interest in talking. After a while Elliot grows quiet, but Porthos fills the silence with meaningless smalltalk as they continue on playing.

The tension is basically radiating off of Elliot, and it only gets worse. Behind the calm front René can basically see the anger brewing inside of him. He is working himself up, like a predator preparing to attack its prey. René can’t tell if Porthos notices, but Elliot is a ticking bomb, ready to explode at any moment, and René is scared of the chaos it will bring.

It does not take them too long to finish the game, but this time around Porthos does not tell the whole tavern about his success. Instead he tries really hard to interact with the two almost mute people at the table, laughing nervously when he gets little to no response from either of them. Elliot finds himself staring at the table, and René watches him cautiously. Porthos continues on talking and at first René thinks very little off it, but when the painful process of Porthos having a very one sided conversations with himself goes on for too long and Porthos begins to chuckle nervously after almost every sentence, René feels guilty and decides he can at least try to pretend everything is okay.

When his friend lets go of the third topic he brings up and takes a gulp of his wine, looking a little defeated, René offers a half hearted comment: “Good wine, yeah?”

Porthos almost chokes on it as he turns to René in excitement. His eyes glows with gratitude. René snickers gently, but the sound get stuck somewhere in his chest alongside the anxiety.

They fall into a brief conversation on different wines, and it does not take too long for Elliot to grow tired of their exchange. He opens his mouth at times, before hesitating and closing it again. His eyes flashes every now and then. Suddenly, he takes a deep swing of his wine, breathing in soundly.

“Hey.” He breathes out then, interrupting Porthos and René, voice tight. He slams down his glass on the table with a little more force than necessary, and René subconsciously leans back in his chair. From the corner of his eye, he can see Porthos throw a hesitant glance in his direction. His friend looks on edge, the smile completely wiped off his face and replaced with a frown. He leans forward a little, broad shoulders pointing out and elbows on the table. He looks prepared to intervene, but says nothing. He only observes for now. René really hopes they will keep it that way.

“Philippe used to love this place.” Elliot continues, voice dangerously low and eyes incredibly cold, filled with hatred, as neither of them says anything. He directs his question to René next. “You remember Philippe, don’t you?”

René swallows hard and can’t help but look down at the table to avoid looking straight into Elliot’s blaming orbs. He is a coward and he knows it, but he also can’t help it. He can feel Savoy slowly creeping up on him. It makes the hair on his neck stand out, and he shivers. The room seems to have dropped at least ten degrees.

“Yes I do. I remember.” René mutters out under his breath, and he hears Elliot bark out a loud, humourless laugh that makes René feel mocked and embarrassed. He ducks his head even further. He can feel his heart pick up its pace again, but this time the urge to flee is a lot stronger. He sucks in a deep breath through his nose and forces himself to stay put. This is what he deserves after all, isn’t?

“Can’t even look at me, can you?” Elliot says, and guilt and embarrassment stabs René in the chest like a hot knife. When he looks up his heart jump at the sight of masked men standing all around them. The next time he blinks though, they are all gone, replaced by shadows. He shivers hard.

“I’m sorry about…” He begins, earnestly, but Elliot cuts him off harshly by using the power of his voice and his fist against the table. René watches as if in slow motion as the hand makes impact with the wood, splinters scratching at the white skin, and for the following seconds the sound of battle goes off inside of René’s head.

_Pistols echoes in a cold forest, the gust of wind shaking the trees as voices shout and scream and holler from pain, fear, anger and despair. Snow covers the floor as boots rapidly hit the ground, frost clinging to the cloaks of the soldiers who are fighting for their lives. Despite the noise, the forest is absolutely silent. Not a single bird dares to open their beak to hum even the saddest of melodies._

_Everything is moving as if in a blur. Aramis’s mind is clouded and dull, but the soldier in him knows how to move, when to attack, when to parry. He fights with everything that he has, not daring to stop, to think, even for the smallest of seconds. It is hell on earth. The sound of battle has never been so close to his heart, slowly tearing down the wall guarding his soul by every comrade he sees crumble to the cold, icy ground around him; body lifeless, limp. Eyes unseeing._

René blinks, and suddenly the white scenery is replaced by shadows in the tavern. They move, spying on him, threatening him, as the scream’s of his comrades continue to echo in his ears. _When the sixth musket goes off_ , everything suddenly becomes completely silent, and the shadows are chased away by the light creeping in from the windows. René is once again back in reality. He blinks and swallows, working his jaw through clenched teeth, and tunes in to hear Elliot snapping at him, almost hysterically:

“... that you’re sorry? How dare you? _You_ of all people! Unbelievable!”

René flinches once again as Elliot snorts loudly, smashing his hand against the table in frustration again, but at least Savoy has the decency of almost leaving him alone this time. The only thing haunting him is the remains of the flashback. It has left him trembling and cold; on edge. He swallows hard at the pressing memories and tries his very best to stay in the presence - with the living.

He wants to help Elliot, to let him know how sorry he is, how much he wishes he could trade places with Philippe; but he has no idea how. Also, there is anger brewing inside of him. It’s deep down, buried under layers of guilt and sorrow, but the little warmth it provides grounds him as he continues to look Elliot in the eye, despite the torment and foul words that tumble out of the other man’s mouth like water in a river.

“How come you deserve to be here when the others aren’t, huh?”

“You know I would trade places with Philippe if I could.” René croaks out in a low voice before he clears his throat, trying his best to remain calm and collected even though Elliot is bristling.

“And that is supposed to make it okay?” Elliot snaps, eyes unforgiving. “Philippe is _dead_.”

By his side, he notices that Porthos is silently fuming. He is shifting in his seat, and he works his jaw in anger. He looks slightly confused, and once again René can’t help but wonder how much he actually knows of what has happened. He glances between René and Elliot as if debating whether he should step in or not, asking for a permission René is not going to give him as their eyes meet.

Instead, to convince Porthos he has everything under control, René gives him his most earnest look and discreetly holds out a hand in his direction, directing him to silence without words. Elliot notices, and raises his volume a notch as if not to be ignored:

“The _great_ marksmen!” He cries sarcastically, saliva actually flying from his mouth as he throws out his arms, embracing the entire world and all of its ugly truths. “Best shot in the regiment! What a fucking _joke_. You’re not the brave man we all thought you were. The man we looked up to. Where is that man, huh? Where is he?!”

He slams his fist in the table and René jumps, grinding his teeth so hard against each other he swears he can hear them breaking. Porthos neglects René’s previous attempts at silencing him when he sees it and opens his mouth, eyes hard as he tries to cut Elliot off.

“Elliot, I think you should lower your…” Elliot ignores him completely.

“You are nothing but a coward!” He shouts at René. “A _coward_! My friends, _my brothers_ ,” he points a shaking finger at his own chest, eyes flaring, voice cracking towards the end. “they are all dead because of _you_!”

“I wish…” René begins, voice shaking terribly, because he cannot bear to listen any longer. He feels ready to break down any second, and this is not the time and place for that. He is not going to defend himself, he knows it’s his fault, they are dead because of him; but he wants to explain, to make Elliot believe him the way Porthos does, the way he himself _can’t_. Elliot of course though, won’t hear him out, and cuts him off. He sounds furious by now, raising to his feet and towering over René like a hawk.

“You wish _what_?” He growls, but everyone at the tavern knows it’s a rhetorical question. He continues the second after. If René dared to speak, he knows Elliot wouldn’t hesitate on smashing him over the head. “You want to know what _I_ wish, Aramis? I wish you were _dead_!”

“His name is René.” Porthos growls out all of a sudden, dangerously, voice low and deadly in his throat. He also gets to his feet, positioning himself so that one shoulder is partly covering René from view. It’s a clear warning; a promise of violence if Elliot dares to continue tormenting his friend, but it’s also a threat: even if René is quick to forgive him, Porthos won’t back down so easily. Elliot has gotten on his nerves. By the way he clenches his fists, he is not only prepared, but also more than willing to use physical abuse in order to make sure justice is served if he finds it a necessity. The anger is basically radiating of off him. He is fuming. René shivers again, and slowly gets to his feet as well.

“It’s okay Porthos.” He says, voice lowered and ashamed. He tries to catch the other man’s eyes, but he finds himself struggling to do so, even as Porthos stares right at him with widened, unbelievable eyes.

The shame burn so profoundly inside of him that he barely can lift his gaze off of the floor. His stance is everything but untroubled, and he can’t help but shrink into himself, feeling extremely self conscious and embarrassed. His cheeks are reddening, and Savoy is pressing on his mind again, clawing at his senses, battling his thoughts into letting go and giving in to the anxiety and depression. He can feel his own breathing pick up a notch, hitching in his chest, stopping in his throat. The low sound he makes is not one he is proud of, and it only seems to get Porthos even more riled up, so René tries to explain, voice still barely above a whisper but dangerously bordering on panic. “He’s drunk. He doesn’t…”

“It’s _not_ okay René.” Porthos protests, but his voice is gentle as he directs it to his friend, despite the underlying tones of anger, one hand raising from his side but hesitating in whether he should comfort René or push Elliot away from them.

Instead, he just looks to René under thick eyebrows and gestures towards Elliot with his hand as if he is a disgusting piece of work. He struggles with his words. “He has no right to speak to you that way.” He says. “René, you…”

Elliot snorts and rolls his eyes, letting out a chuckling, mocking laugh under his breath. Porthos instantly turns to him and gives him a steely look, hatred burning behind his eyes. He doesn’t have time to start with him before Elliot lets his voice be heard again, glancing at René from behind Porthos’ broad chest:

“Do you always need someone to defend you Aramis?” He sounds surprisingly amused. “And here I thought Marsac was bad enough…”

“ _Hey_!” Porthos’ voice is incredibly hard and booming as he snaps at Elliot before the man gets the chance to finish his sentence. Elliot turns to him, eyes angry and body fuming just as much at Porthos’ but for different reasons.

Porthos’ tone indicates that he is very done with the conversation by now, and if it was possible René could swear the man’s chest grew inches broader as the threat was clearly spelled out between them: “I’m warning you, if I hear another foul word from you about my friend, this won’t end pretty. I would advise you to leave - now.”

“ _I_ have every right to be here.” Elliot growls to Porthos before gesturing towards René. “He doesn’t.”

Porthos looks ready to punch him, mouth already opening in René’s defence, but before he gets the chance a voice joins in from the crowd that slowly as gathered around them.

“Elliot,” A figure with scruffy blonde hair steps forward and gently places a hand on the drunkard’s shoulder. The owner of the voice is a young man, a head shorter than Porthos, but the tired expression on his face makes him look older.

The boy’s hand is brushed off, and the voice instantly goes from a gentle initiation to a much harder command, surprisingly strong for the young man’s age and obvious inexperience of fieldwork: “Elliot you’re being unreasonable.” He continues. “Lay off of him. It’s not worth it, you’ve said your piece already. If you continue like this we are going to be forced to leave anyways...”

“I don’t care!” Elliot barks out, glaring at the boy before turning to René again, eyes livid, gesturing towards him with a wavering hand even as he directs his words to everyone at the tavern. There is a desperation in his eyes that tears René apart inside. “ _He’s_ here. He shouldn’t be _here_.”

“René does belong here.” Porthos growls dangerously, glaring daggers. René can feel uncertainty burning in his stomach. Why is Porthos defending him so? They haven’t even known each other for so long. He can see Porthos’ chest move as he breathes in, hard. “ _You_ on the other hand don’t.”

René takes a step forward so he is almost standing side by side with Porthos, placing a careful hand on his arm in order to stop him from continuing down that road. He can feel the tight muscles moving under the dark skin as Porthos works to control his anger, glancing at René to try and read the look on his face. The Spaniard himself prays to God he looks steadier than he feels, but he knows Porthos can feel him trembling.

“Porthos, let's just go.” He knows he sounds tired, and he is. He also feels very much like a coward, avoiding looking at Elliot even now, but he does not want Porthos to fight his battles for him and he clearly isn’t ready to fight them himself. This is between René, Elliot, and the other families and friends of the twenty dead musketeers in Savoy. It is René’s burden to bear, and he would never forgive himself if Porthos got hurt in the process of trying to take some of it off his shoulders.

“Please.” He adds carefully when Porthos refuses to move, unyieldingly pinning Elliot down with his eyes and stance alone.

The bigger man hesitates for the smallest of seconds but seems to decide his own pride isn’t worth putting René through any more torment as he nods his chin warily in René’s direction. “Yeah.” He mutters. “Let’s go”

He works his jaw and gives Elliot one last glare before tearing his gaze away and reluctantly grabbing his coat from the chair, already moving towards the door and turning around to make sure René is following.

Before René gets the chance to move past Elliot though, the other man sidesteps and blocks his way. René only just manages to catch Porthos’ eyes before he is forced to focus on the man before him. “You shouldn’t be here.” Elliot repeats. Before anyone can stop him he steps forward, pushing his chest against René’s even as the other man tries to shrink back. His voice is deadly as he continues. “You should be dead and buried alongside our brothers.”

His hands are suddenly on René’s chest and before the smaller man gets the chance to react he is pushed back. As he stumbles into the table, silverware cluttering, adrenaline pumps through his veins. Elliot looks ready to strike again, but before he even starts Porthos is there, standing like a barricade between René and Elliot with a low growl in the back of his throat. He shoves the drunkard back so roughly the man in question almost trips over his own feet before he finds his balance again.

“That’s _enough_.” Porthos barks, and his tone speaks volumes of the violence he wants to inflict but can’t given the circumstances. He looks _furious_ , and nothing like the happy go-lucky person René has gotten used to having by his side every waking hour over these three weeks.

He holds out a warning hand in Elliot’s direction and reaches out for René’s shoulder with the other, gripping at his cloak in a protective, comforting manner, glancing at him and trying to catch his eye in order to make sure he is okay. René nods shakely in reassurance. He is shivering violently by now and his breathing has picked up, but right now he just want to get out of here and he knows they aren’t leaving until he gives Porthos some sort of confirmation that he is not in need of immediate attendance.

Porthos nods back at him, offering a gentle smile, before wiping it off completely as he turns back to Elliot who looks shook and frozen to the floor.

“Leave.” Porthos grounds out. “ _Now_.”

Two people grab at Elliot and mutter something inaudible to him, and he finally complies. The three of them scurries away like dogs with their tails between their legs, and Porthos steelily glares at everyone else who dares to look in their direction until they uncomfortably move away. In the end, the young man with scruffy hair remains. He shifts his weight from one foot to another, passing a nervous glance at Porthos before offering René an uncertain apology.

“I’m sorry about him, Aramis. He...”

“His name is _René_.” Porthos spits impatiently, and René wonders when Porthos got so accepting of his name, considering how their first meeting went. He sighs before continuing. “Sod off.”

The boy nods his head rapidly, eyes downcasted as he moves away hurriedly, disappearing in the crowd. Porthos turns to René. “Are you okay?” He prompts gently, still gripping his shoulder but keeping his distance as if he is scared that René will bolt if he gets to close. The smaller man is still shaking and he can’t make himself utter any words. Porthos does not let him wallow in the feelings of being useless for too long. “Should we get out of here?”

René simply nods dumbly and Porthos nods a couple of times, glancing around them as if looking for the best way out of the crowded tavern. He then looks back at René and gives him a tender smile, nudging his shoulder until René shuffles his feet against the floor. He then casually leads the smaller man alongside him, passing people as if in a blur of bodies and movement and sounds.

When they finally reach the door René pushes away from Porthos and stumbles over the threshold in his hurry to escape. Porthos instantly reaches out to steady him as his head spins but he forces himself to find support by propping himself up against the wall instead, heaving for breath as his chest grows tighter with every second that passes. He nervously fumbles with his collarbone and massages his sternum with trembling hands, trying to ease the anxiety. When it doesn’t work he lets out a pained noise, and moves to grab at his shirt instead, leaning over as his lungs screams at him. He lets out a loud sob before he can stop himself, and then Porthos is right there again, hands on his shoulders, pushing him back upright.

“Hey, hey.” He says hurriedly, voice gentle but extremely worried. “René. What’s wrong? Talk to me.”

He ducks his head to try and meet René’s eyes, and looks horrified when he gets a glimpse of the unshed tears in them. René closes his eyes to try and block him out and tries to look down but Porthos catches his neck and chin with one hand, gently probing him back up. “René, talk to me, please. You don’t need to hide from me. I’m here, I’m your friend, and I can see that you’re hurting _a lot_ right now. I want to help, in every way I can.” He is practically begging now, but René just shakes his head, eyes still clenched tightly shut, body spasming in pain as he fights to hold back all of the emotion inside of him.

There is a tense moment of silence following in which René focuses very hard on the sounds of the night in order to keep himself in check. The wind is chilly but feels incredibly nice on his skin.

“Okay.” Porthos suddenly says then, voice hesitant, but reluctantly giving in. René slowly opens his eyes again and finds Porthos still looking at him, but his eyes are no longer prying, and one drop of water leaves René’s left eye. Porthos’ face twists into something close to distress, and the next second René finds himself crushed against the bigger man’s broad chest and his face is pressed against warm skin. The arms circulates his body and Porthos tips his head down against hair, holding him close until the shaky, soundless sobs subsides and René is left utterly exhausted and drained.

Then, he follows him home, one arm cast around his shoulders, body comfortingly warm and alive beside him, constantly rubbing his arms and whispering words of comfort; and despite everything, René almost feels lucky to be with the living in that moment.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed. Please leave a comment to let me know what you think! All comments are greatly appreciated! <33


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